Edison Jennings

Grotto

Her hair was long, her foot was light, And her eyes were wild. John Keats

On the floor, amid the clutter,
        a blotch of sunlight spread like butter
glazing kicked-off high-heel shoes,
          a boutique blouse of sequined blues,
the lingerie she had let fall
         `leaving her in none at all.

Time since that lush dishevelment
         found her less and less content,
until she shed constraint like heat,
         enthralling, cruel, and indiscreet,
that warmed, then burned, and left him chilled
          in the house the sun had filled,

refracting through the mullioned panes
         upon a wall in shifting seines
and on the floor in pools of gold,
          a grotto where he now grows old
drifting through the gilded wrack,
          grotesque of love, or love’s lack.

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